


thank the lord for taco bell

by captainRochol



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dorks, M/M, Taco Bell, Wow those kids are hella gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 21:26:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainRochol/pseuds/captainRochol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat meets Dave at Taco Bell. Dave is an asshole.</p><p>Dave meets Karkat at Taco Bell. Karkat is hella cute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	thank the lord for taco bell

You know the old, battered Taco Bell well. 

It's a tiny building, with the original logo in flickering neon attatched to the purple shingles. It smells like taco sauce, lemon cleaner, and sweat, and it also smells almost like home to you. 

It's firmly sandwiched between an old Blockbusters and Starbucks, so you can easily take your second-hand laptop to the third-hand Taco Bell, and mooch off of the coffee shop's Wi-Fi as you eat your Burrito Supreme. 

And that's what you do every Friday after work at Best Buy. 

Today shouldn't've been any different than any other Friday. You park your beat up Volkswagon Passat outside the door, in the same parking space as usual, and get out, carrying your laptop case under your left arm. 

You push the door open, sighing at the familiar jingle. You then set your laptop down at the same table as usual, and, knowing it wouldn't be stolen, walked up to the register. Per the norm, Cronus, the greasy, twenty-something who smells like car grease, menthol cigarettes, and overbearing cologne is working the counter, and he grins around his toothpick as you approach. 

"'ey, Chief. Havin' the same as usual?" he asks, already pulling a large cup off of the stack. You nod tiredly, exhaling slowly. 

"Yeah. Extra cheese tonight, though," you say, forking over a couple of bills. Cronus nods, chewing on his toothpick as he opens the drawer to the register and smooths out your bills to put them inside. He then counts out the change, and hands you a couple of tarnished coins. 

"Fifteen cents is your change," he drawls, as he turns around to  
shout to the back. 

"Yo, Meen! Crabby wants the usual, with extra cheese!" he shouts, and Meenah, the usual burrito maker, shouts back. 

"I can hear ya from back here!"

You roll your eyes at the two's bickering and go to fill your cup with diet Pepsi. You exhale as the drink machine shakes violently and vomits the soda into your cup, before you turn and head to your table, snagging a few packets of mild sauce  
and guacamole on the way back. 

You set all your crap down, taking a moment to seat yourself and power on your ancient laptop. You finish logging on as Cronus calls your number, and, with much effort, you get out of your seat and go up to the counter. 

"Thanks," you say, taking the tray from Cronus's hand. 

"Anytime, chief," he replied, winking. You rol his eyes, taking your food back to his table and sitting down with it. As soon as you plant your rump in the cracked plastic bench, though, the bell over the door jingled. You look up curiously; nobody ever visited this rundown Taco Bell on Friday nights. Nobody. 

Yet there someone was, standing in the doorway for a moment before strolling confidently towards the counter, his hands shoved in his pockets. 

You watch the young man. He couldn't be much older than you yourself; maybe nineteen or twenty at the oldest. His short hair was the color of cornsilk, and dark aviators sat on his pale nose, obscuring his eyes. His hands were burrowed deep in the pockets of his leather jacket, and a pair of red Beats headphones sat nestled around his neck. 

You scrunch up his nose. The kid looked like a class-A douchebag. You turn back to your computer, unwrapping his burrito. 

After a minute, there was the sound of a chair scraping against cheap tile, and you glance up over his computer to see the same kid from earlier.

He narrowed his eyes. 

"Can I help you?" you ask snarkily, glaring at the intruder. 

"Yeah, man. This place is pretty damn lonely, like a fucking graveyard at midnight. But you're that one kid who's gone where no one else has, a brave martyr, and I'm here to join you on your romp through the tombstones."

You stare at him, a bit bewildered. 

"I---"

"Sorry, I know I can get a little long winded, but c'mon. This place is a ghost town, and since you're sitting here, being a little cutie, I just had to come sit across from you."

Your jaw drops, just a little bit. Then you force it closed, and scowl at him. 

"Did I fucking say you could sit here?" you demand. 

"Nah, but I accept your silent invitation. Bros can pick up on this shit." The corners of his mouth quirk up slightly, and your scowl deepens. 

"I don't even know you! How the hell would we be friends?!"

"Bros."

You freeze. "What?"

"We're bros. Not friends," he clarfies, unwrapping his soft taco and taking a bite. You narrow your eyes even more, and swat the beef-and-filler stuffed tortilla out of his hand. It goes soaring, and it lands with a faint squish on the tile floor. He stares at it, and you stare at it, wondering what the _fuck_ came over you. 

"Well," he says, standing up. He picks it up and heads over to the trashcan, tossing it in. 

You don't say anything. You refuse to apologize as he sits back down, sipping at his Hi-C and just _staring_ at you from behind his sunglasses. You try to concentrate on the code in front of you (the ingenious one that you're developing), and your burrito, but his gaze is burning into you. It grates on your nerves, and you can hardly stand it anymore, when--

"Hey--"

"What?!" you explode, throwing your half-eaten burrito down on the tray. "What could you possibly want?!" You've never met someone who could infuriate you _so much_ , just by doing nothing. (And yet, you can't help but be attracted to him.)

His facial expression doesn't change. "Give me your phone number."

You weren't expecting _that_.

"Uh--"

"It's either that, or a new taco, because you owe me," he states plainly. You stare at him, in awe. 

"Well, you do."

"I--- fine," you say irritably, digging your wallet out. You open it, leafing through the bills until, with horror, you find that you don't have enough for what he wants to eat. 

You scowl a bit viciously, your cheeks flaring up as you yank your Sharpie out of your laptop case and scribble your name and number on his pale forearm. You then hurriedly pack up your stuff as he smirks at you, and stumble outside to your car, which a red truck is now residing next to. 

You can't believe you just gave your number to some prick. You also can't believe he texts you moments later, asking you out to Taco Bell later next week on a date. 

But it happens anyway.


End file.
